


Neither Hide Nor Hair

by doc_boredom



Category: TWRP | Tupper Ware Remix Party (Band)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hair Brushing, Light Angst, and general hair tie shenanigans, light lore building, this was v self indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 08:53:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15457713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doc_boredom/pseuds/doc_boredom
Summary: "He can’t remember the last time his hair had been this long."Who knew having too much hair would be cause for introspection and impromptu hair brushing therapy sessions?





	Neither Hide Nor Hair

**Author's Note:**

> Just something self indulgent because I've been considering doing wacky with my own hair after my best friend just went and chopped hers after having it be the same length for nearly ten years and some excuse for some minor Phobos angst. Enjoy.

He can’t remember the last time his hair had been this long.

It’s been in a desperate need for a cut for months now, strands of it insistent on catching on his bottom lip and worming their way into his mouth, tangling themselves up in the morning and on the wind when he’s got his helmet off, face bared to the world. His head was heavy with it, shampoo bottles nearly depleted because of it, and annoyance at an all time high because of it.

Of course, he doesn’t trust anybody but himself to cut it, so for some time and then some it stays just like that. And it isn’t until he’s shoved his hair back from his face for the tenth time that day, frustrated with the way it falls back over his bent body and guitar, that Meouch finally sighs and demands for him to hold his hands out.

A pack of hair ties finds it’s home in his cupped palms.

“Tie that shit back, man.” Meouch sighs. “Or you’re gonna wake up with it chopped off.”

His brows slant into a sharp ‘V’ as he curls his fingers around them. “Thanks.” He clips, not really meaning it. He’s in the process of deciding if he should be gracious or offended. Meouch rolls his eyes in response, snorting air through his nose in an unimpressed way before walking off.

Fine then.

He makes quick, ugly work of tearing the packaging apart, annoyance still boiling along his veins. He fumbles and they all spill out onto the floor in a glorious cascade, pilling innocently at his feet. Phobos stares at the mess for a moment before leaning down, hair a sudden blonde curtain around him as he does.  _ You really ought to just chop it _ , he tells himself as he pinches his fingers around one, sitting up once more. Infinitely less work and struggle and frustration, and yet he remembers then how and when he took a knife to it, shearing  it to his scalp, almost managing to lope off his antennae in the process. Oh, that’s right... it had been this long right up until the massacre of his home planet.

Right up until he had lost Deimos.

It had taken a long, long time to grow it back out and he had always been meticulous about keeping it short too, curling just around his chin and the nape of his neck. He never wanted it to be that long again, and yet here he was, just as long if not longer. He pushes his fingers into it, digits tangling it all up as he presses the rough pads of them against his scalp, nails digging in. When had the wound of the past closed up, not even a scar to show for it? He had forgotten about it so easily, about everything and everyone and Deimos. Deimos, Deimos, Deimos. 

“Phobos.”

He looks up and Sung is there, helmet off, core flickering. “Woah there, buddy.” He says in a soft voice, worry pulling at the corners of his mouth. Phobos lets out a huff of a broken laugh and bows his head once more, thankful for the way his hair hangs for once. “What’s up?”

He drops the hair tie and begins to sign, not trusting his voice, giving himself a reason not to dig at his scalp anymore than he has. ‘ _ Remembering _ .’ He explains.

“Yeah?” Sung kneels and collects all the ties into his hands, depositing them onto a nearby table. He slips one onto his wrist, a quick magic that Phobos doesn’t quite understand. “Watcha remembering?”

_ ‘Home _ .’

The sign is as easy as bringing his fingers up to his face, thumb pressed into the arc of the four others, touching them to the corner of his mouth and then once more at the spot where his cheek swells. That’s how you sign home. But it was more than that, more than just shape and placement and even the meaning of it. 

“Ah.” Sung says, stepping behind the couch. Phobos turns some but Sung frames his face from behind and keeps him looking forward. “Yup, that’ll do it.” He says in a conversational kind of way.

Suddenly Sung’s combing his fingers through Phobos’s strands, humming softly under his breath. It’s so unexpected and even when Sung’s fingers catch on the tangles and pull just so, Phobos finds himself relaxing back into the worn couch, lids closing over his eyes.

They were two peas in a pod, him and Sung. Both the last of their kind. It had been Sung who helped him quell his rage in the beginning after they had first met, the empath placing the guitar into his hands years ago with a knowing smile. How many strings had he snapped at the beginning, Sung showing him how to string it once more? How many times had he lost himself in the past, coming back to the present with his guitar split in two, Sung simply whisking it all away only to have another shining and ready upon his bed the next day? 

How many times had Sung found him hidden away in corners and had taken his hands into his, showing him to clench his fingers one by one only to let them all spool out again. “Let it go.” Sung would whisper in a careful voice, the kind of voice you used when you spoke to frightened and wild things. “Don’t hold on to that. You’re more than that, Phobos. More than that.”

How many times had he helped him through the blind panic? The gasping pain? The terror and memory of ash and blood coating his throat, the ultimate reminder that he could still speak when Deimos would never be able to ever again?

How many? How many? How many?

“This is what he would want.” Sung says, voice low and soft. The empath has the length of his hair gripped gently in his hand, up and off his neck. “You, being happy, living… Moving on.”

“It still feels  _ wrong _ .” Phobos croaks out, throat thick with the tears he refuses to shed. 

“I know.” He doesn’t see Sung move but he feels him move. His hair tugs some and suddenly it’s being pulled and looped, over in on itself. “I don’t think it ever won’t, Phobos, but you’re  _ you _ . You’re not living for him, you’re living for yourself. You want to have long hair, sure fine. You want to just sign for the rest of your life, you got it.” Sung sighs and does something with the hair tie, causing it to tighten. “Don’t do it for him, do it for  _ you _ .”

Sung steps away and Phobos is surprised when his hair doesn’t fall back around his face. The Lepid reaches up and gasps when he feels the overlapping elastic of the hair tie, his hair neatly pulled through it. Sung smiles as he comes around, chuckling at his amazed expression. “Just a hair tie, Phobs. Nothing too crazy.”

“Yeah, but…” He shakes his head, ponytail whipping back and forth with it. He lets out another surprised laugh and Sung’s really beaming then.

“I’ll show you how to do a braid next.” Sung’s hand comes down between his antennae and he pats him once, twice. “Now get to practicing, we’ve got to be perfect for the next show.”

He finds himself in the room alone once more and his unable to keep himself from touching the back of his neck, then up up up until they find his hair. He pulls it over his shoulder and looks at it. The split ends and the way the light plays off of the blonde-yellow color of it. 

Maybe having long hair again isn’t that bad after all. 

  
  
  



End file.
